


Old Habits

by vaderade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Gen, M/M, Reconciliation, anyway somebody please get these robots to therapy, do i have a rollercoaster of a oneshot for you, dratchet moment also in epilogue, nothing like having your former boss as a captain, platonic driftrod moment in epilogue, tense conversations, this fic is mostly drift & megs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaderade/pseuds/vaderade
Summary: Drift hasn't fully worked through what it means to have Megatron as a Captain. Rodimus convinces Drift to go talk to the ex-leader of the Decepticons, but the attempt for them to come to terms seems doomed to fail. (Warning for anxious spiralling and a mild attack.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friends who gave me the idea, beta'd, and encouraged me to post this!
> 
> This is meant to take place in a quiet moment after the latest arc of the Lost Light comic, but it's not exactly time-specific— in any event it's Post-Dying of the Light.

Drift found Megatron alone, as promised, on what was seemingly the only unoccupied portion of the ship. The mech's glowing red optics were trained straight ahead through the floor-to-ceiling viewport, gazing out on the vast darkness and pinpricks of faint starlight. An enchanting image, once, perhaps, the great leader (former leader) of the Grand Army of the Decepticons (now officially disbanded) bathed in celestial light. Propaganda material, almost. 

Drift couldn't find a shred of admiration in the sight. He had arrived keyed up for this by Rodimus' prodding and hyper-aware. He could feel the tension in his springs as he entered the room; mingling with bitterness, it wordlessly coiled and settled deep in the confines of his chest.

Megatron turned his head only as soon as Drift let himself be heard. Megatron's autobot brand shone like a beacon in the light. Drift felt queasy.

“Drift.” Megatron said, in a gentle tone that didn't suit him. “I'm glad you came.”

“Not sure I am.” Drift jabbed back. He couldn't hide the distaste in his expression and resisted the urge to unleash his field to broadcast it.

Megatron's face revealed little. His lips parted a touch— Surprise? Drift wondered, although it was unlikely to be genuine, —and closed again before he offered, “Come, sit beside me.”

“Not interested.” Drift hissed like coolant on a hot engine. Megatron's brows drew together, expression stony and sober. “I don't know what you think you're planning,” Drift continued, “but I don't enjoy you being here already. And I definitely do not want to have this conversation with you.”

“Drift…” Megatron's voice rose in warning. 

The tone sent a shiver up Drift's spinal column, but he refused to back down. He was not that type of mech, never was. “I am not here to nurse your wounds, Megatron, whatever they may be.”

“Sit down.” That authoritative voice, curt and short, was the one of a mech who gave orders and did not tolerate resistance. Although his spark was pulsing faster now from fear, Drift decided that this time Megatron would just have to be frustrated. 

“I don't take your orders.” Drift replied, crossing his arms. “Rodimus is my captain. I only came here at his request. Not yours. Supposedly, you had something to say to me.”

“That I do.” said Megatron, ever professional. “If you would allow me, and—”

“No,” Drift interrupted, a harsh note entering his voice, “if there is something, you can tell me from here and do it fast—”

“—This is important.” A second warning, louder. With Megatron most only got one. Deadlock remembered that well.

“—otherwise, I'm leaving. I have nothing to say to you.” Drift continued brazenly, becoming more incensed as he continued, “So if you have something truly important to say to me, you should spit it out before I walk right back—”

“— _Drift._ ” Megatron boomed. “ _Sit. Down._ ”

Drift shuddered, toe to tip, optics wide. Energon pounded in his head, he could almost feel his pulse in his wrists, his neck, his chest. His teeth gritted, back straightened, and vocaliser ground to a halt on instinct. Every part of him was on a belt ready to snap, a tense knot about to fray. 

Just seeing Megatron had brought back memories Drift could have done to forget— hearing that order brought back an itch: the rigid programming of hierarchy, the austere programming of place, things he had been taught well long ago. Megatron's voice was that of ultimate command, woe betide the mech who did not listen.

Even as Megatron turned back around to face the viewport, Drift could not shake the stiffness from his frame. Tried as he might to quiet his mind, his body, to ground himself in the present, to remember that _this_ Megatron had no hold over him, it was useless. His spark screamed to flee before anything worse happened, his instinct cautioned to obey. Wordlessly he stood there, staring at the back of the warlord, his former warlord, attempting and failing to calm himself. 

In the silence, instinct won. Drift took a seat beside Megatron.

Megatron didn't acknowledge Drift except for to sigh gently, and Drift kept his servos clasped in his lap to keep them from shaking. As he had approached, every tensed fiber of his being regretted it, and when he sat down that regret burned worse than any corroder he had ever forced down. He resented having made this choice immediately, resented coming at all, and felt as if he were giving into the same logic of necessity that had fuelled all his choices leading up to his defection— an emotionless attachment to survival that drowned him in a deep, bright pool of spilled energon. He could feel himself spilling, spooling all over the metal flooring. 

_Drift, not Deadlock. Autobot now, not Decepticon. They have no power over me. I can choose to leave at any time. Primus preserve me._

Drift's whole frame shook again as he tried to pull himself back from shock, subtly and briefly, and took in a ragged breath. Megatron didn't appear to notice. 

Drift couldn't help but think he shouldn't have sat there in the first place— his first mistake would be having conceded and cowed to an order. He could have forged ahead even knowing he was being menaced. Or better yet, stopped this encounter before it ever happened. He could have gone back to Rodimus and told him that it wasn't the time for this, back to Ratchet for comfort, and dodged this conversation at every turn. It wouldn’t have even been hard. He could probably have even convinced Ratchet that they should go elsewhere again.

It wasn't that he hated Megatron. In a way, he could never fully hate Megatron the way that many Autobots did. After all, this was still the same Megatron who pulled Drift from the gutter, who dubbed him and gave him a purpose, something to believe in. Drift hated what Megatron represented to him personally. The old swell of pride he felt at his memories was a thorn in his mind, an elation to be reviled, not re-lived. Best to be buried. Deadlock was undeniably a part of him— but many things had changed, Drift had changed himself. Megatron was a fearful reminder Drift never wanted or needed, a suggestion that Drift himself was more stagnant than the Pious Pools.

Megatron's voice cut through his overworked processor. It startled Drift— his hands launched to the hilt and scabbard of one sword, ready to draw. Megatron didn't react— he glanced at the sharp movement out of the corner of his optics, but his voice remained even, a gravelly grumble, so many stones rolling.

“Decepticon warships were never designed with viewports, do you remember?” Megatron asked.

Drift was instantly pulled back to the moment, and couldn't conceal his befuddlement, raising a browplate. Viewports? Megatron wanted to talk about viewports? Where was this small talk going? He nodded along despite himself. 

“I remember.” Drift said, quickly.

Megatron… Drift might have been mistaken, but it sounded as if Megatron breathed an aborted laugh. “‘Viewports are an unnecessary structural weakness,’ as Shockwave put it. Visual simulators would be located on the bridge, but with the advancement of targeting equipment there had been no need to include structural viewports.”

Drift frowned as Megatron paused for a moment. The dimly lit hallways of Turmoil's flagship and dour, lifeless rooms only illuminated by the blinking of the equipment inside sprung to mind immediately. He hadn't cared at the time, but he abhorred the memory— it shaped a singular consciousness of cold and brutal efficiency, and almost had a vampiric quality on the crew. Himself included.

“I admit that I agreed with Shockwave at the time,” said Megatron, at length. “But now I've come to like them. Space is an observable eternity, a constant. I couldn't appreciate the sight or concept properly before.”

Drift slowly released the grip on his sword and stared out at the stars, confusions only multiplying. He only nodded, unsure of how to respond. 

The following silence was uncomfortable for Drift, but Megatron didn't seem to be having any problem whatsoever. Drift, unable to reason an answer, relaxed the guard on his field enough to try to touch Megatron’s… and was surprised to find it totally and utterly calm. Unexpectant. Just open, cool, and calm. Pale and serene. Like the colour of light reflected from one of Earth's vast oceans.

Drift immediately pulled his field back, awkward and giddy. He didn't know what he expected. Veiled anger, perhaps. An immediate attempt to dominate even the slightest vulnerability Drift revealed, more likely. Awaiting an opportunity to exploit. That would be the Megatron he knew, always ten steps ahead, never waiting without expectation of reward. Fumbling, immediately worried that he had left himself too open, Drift's mouth worked faster than his mind.

“I meditate.” Drift blurted out. Megatron gave him a quizzical look. “By viewports. My hab had one on the Lost Light.” Drift gulped back apprehension, adding an addendum in a voice that suddenly seemed very small, “Simple metaphors.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to meditate.” Megatron remarked. “When did you start?”

“After leaving the Circle of Light.” Drift said. “I learned how as a part of Metallikato, but didn't take it very seriously until I had already left.” There had been much to meditate on at the time.

Megatron cleared his throat, an embarrassed look crossing his face. “I… see.” Megatron replied cautiously. “I never heard the full story of what had happened there.”

That set Drift off immediately. _‘What had happened there.’_ Wing, Lockdown, Braid, Dai Atlas, and the Circle. All shreds of his anxiety and awkwardness burned suddenly to a hot crisp. 

“Oh? So which part did Lockdown fail to report?” Drift snapped. “The part where he employed slavers to do your dirty work or when they started killing neutral Cybertronians who had nothing to do with your quarrel?”

“None of it.” Megatron said bluntly. “Lockdown simply alerted me that he had failed.”

_How very convenient._ “Sure.” Drift snorted.

Megatron exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm not asking that you put the past behind you,” Megatron began. (Drift rolled his eyes, not caring whether Megatron noticed, waiting for the ‘but.’) “…I'd rather ask that you tell me about it.”

“Why would I agree to do that?” Drift asked, laughing shallowly. “For the sake of commonality? For previously being on your side? _At_ your side? Because I was so good at my job that I have almost as much gore on my record as you do?” He shook his head, his voice catching an edge. “Just because we now have both traded out a badge doesn't mean we're the same.”

“I don't intend to suggest anything of the sort. That much has already been made clear.” Megatron soothed. “Not long ago, under different circumstances, it was Skids who reminded me of that very thing.”

_Skids._ Drift looked askance. Megatron probably knew Skids better than Drift did, in truth. He felt a twinge of regret rest heavily into his chest— he should have made more of an effort in the beginning. Skids hadn't deserved such a miserable fate.

Megatron continued speaking. “He accused me of changing my colours and nothing else. And he was right, I knew it in my spark.” Drift turned back to Megatron and found the old mech looking at him, an expression of remorse on Megatron's angular face. Drift did not dare to reach out for his field or search for his hue. Drift found himself afraid, again, in fact. It would be so much easier to pretend Megatron had no shred of honesty left in his frame. But Megatron fixed his powerful gaze on Drift and didn't let him escape. 

“Skids asked me what this badge meant to me then.” Megatron pointed at the gleaming red autobot symbol. “I didn’t answer at that time, not in so many words. But this is a brand of due justice; I know now that this is a matter of securing a better future for Cybertron.” 

“I will be tried for what I have done, Drift. There is no meaning left in pursuing self-serving goals.” Drift felt his intake halt for a moment when Megatron then admitted: “I only want to try once more to better the universe before facing the full weight of my actions, whether it means I rust away or join the afterspark once and for all.”

Drift wanted to believe him. Every fiber of his being wanted to believe in those words. But this Megatron was irreconcilable with millions of years of memory. Even as he had watched Megatron kill the DJD, even when Megatron was about to sacrifice himself in harnessing the power to do so, Drift had still been unable to make sense of it. It was the same dissonance of talking to this calm, placid mech, and being shocked into following an order minutes earlier.

“Old habits die hard, Megatron.” Drift replied in a voice that crackled with dismay. “I would know.”

Megatron looked genuinely crestfallen. Drift had never seen anything like it before. 

“So you would,” was all Megatron had to say.

They sat in solemn silence again, Drift curled up with his knees against his chest, Megatron slouched, chin propped on one hand, gazing glumly outside. Drift was warring with himself. This wasn't a wound he wanted healed, nor one he wanted reopened. He hadn’t wanted to touch it at all. Megatron had known Drift at his worst, but made it clear he wanted to move past that. Drift saw potential for something great and yet wished Megatron had never come near him again so he wouldn't have to contend with the guilt of believing even Megatron could grow beyond his grotesque actions. 

He thought of Ratchet, for a moment, who saved his life so long ago, who then had given him a chance in spite of everything that had happened, who cared enough to come after him when he left— yet Ratchet never trusted Megatron. 

> (An ex-con with the captain’s audials. Of course he could take the blame.
> 
> _‘Did they hit you hard? Let me see your head.’_  
>  Ratchet had been the one who picked him up back then, and saw him off.  
>  He took Drift away from the jeering crew. The only one who helped at the time.
> 
> _‘Rodimus doesn’t appreciate what you’ve done for him.’_  
>  Drift tried to protest, worried for his friend. Worried for his cover. Ratchet shushed him.  
>  _‘I didn’t become CMO by being unobservant. Rodimus regrets it, but not nearly enough.’_  
> 
> 
> Ratchet said something over shortwave when Drift’s ship left the hangar.  
>  Being unable to hear it burned worse than low-grade.  
>  At times it felt like a theft that he had volunteered for.  
>  At others, Drift wished he could disappear.)

Wing had thought Drift deserved that chance too. Wing was long-dead because of Megatron. 

> (Wing… Wing.  
>  _‘Another fault: you're quick to judge.’_  
>  Drift remembered that Wing had told him so once after besting him once more in the ring.  
>  _‘Keep in mind that your expectations don't define your opponent. Or yourself.’_
> 
> __
> 
> Drift remembered telling him to shut up, and they went again.  
>  Wing had grinned and asked if he had expected to lose that time too. 
> 
> Drift was furious.  
>  Wing managed to catch him off balance when Drift attempted to swing at him again.  
>  Wing had laughed, and they called it a night.)

__

Drift broke the silence.

__

“The mech who taught me meditation was a member of the Circle of Light named Wing.” Megatron trained his stare on Drift again, and Drift could feel it boring into him. 

__

“One of Lockdown's hired slavers killed him in the fight on Theophany. After I refused to give up the Circle of Light to return to the Decepticons.” Drift placed his pedes back on the ground and slouched over his legs. 

__

He eased his field out to its normal range as he spoke. “While you were conquering worlds and killing Autobots, the Circle had been building a new casteless Cybertron on Theophany. Wing was one of its defenders.”

__

Megatron nodded, Drift saw from the corner of his eye. “Sounds like you admire him.”

__

“Immensely.” Drift replied. “He volunteered to help me when Dai Atlas denied me aid. He convinced me to use my strength to defend the Circle in the first place.” 

__

Drift paused and took a few halting breaths. Even this long after, he grieved occasionally. Drift was still guilty. It remained fiercely unfair that Wing had been sacrificed for Drift’s survival. He hardly got what he deserved. “The greatsword I carry with me is his, but the burden and responsibility of carrying his memory is mine.”

__

Drift finally met Megatron's piercing eyes. “I don't trust you, and I don't know that you would be worth forgiving—” Megatron was about to protest, but Drift raised a hand to quiet him and continued. “But Wing would think so, unconditionally. After all, he believed it when it came to me. I don't deserve to carry the last of his spark with me if I don't attempt to do the same.”

__

Megatron just about melted, from the looks of it. Drift's open field felt a gentle, grateful warmth at its fraying edges. 

__

A wide, relieved smile spread over Megatron's face. “Thank you.” he said.

__

Drift nodded, flashing a hesitant little one in return. “Let's talk.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy, or at least somewhat bittersweet ending.

They talked for hours. There was much to say, good and bad. Megatron, as it turned out, was quite the patient listener. He interjected little of his own while Drift was speaking, humbly and unpatronisingly allowed Drift to say as much or as little as he wanted. 

Drift had always wondered how high command had received his departure, and Megatron informed him of it unflinchingly. And then he told Drift about Cybertron, the plot that overthrew Bumblebee, and Shockwave’s nefarious and nearly-successful plan to end everything. Then Optimus’ offer, his decision, and impending judgement.

Megatron seemed remorseful, if not regretful. They commiserated in a shared sense of the inevitability of their pasts. Old habits died hard indeed, and old soldiers did not simply fade away.

For the sake of lightening the mood they told stories. Such stories. Autobots never wanted to listen to the lighthearted ones from the ‘con side. It was easier to believe it was all bad, even Drift had convinced himself of that. But by the end, Drift found himself enjoying himself enough to ignore his pinging comm. He nearly had tears in his optics, and kept catching his glossa in his teeth while holding back peals of laughter.

This particular story was a good one. Nothing was sweeter than hearing about Turmoil embarrassing himself on the Command Ship in a way he would never live down.

Megatron leaned in like he was telling a secret. “—Of course it's the middle of the night, and so Turmoil is off to raid rations from the mess.”

“Primus, that glitch used to take mine all the time.” Drift groaned. “He stockpiled for his own personal stash. It was horrible, really, I’m surprised I didn't go this far myself.”

Megatron chuckled sinisterly. “Well he never did again after this happened. —They found an extra case of remote, spring loaded inhibitor clamps and set them around the perimeter.”

Drift gasped in mock scandal. “They didn't.”

A grin split across Megatron's cheeks. “Three on Turmoil’s face. Rumble and Frenzy have good aim.”

Drift erupted into laughter again. “Primus, he deserved it, the fragging thief!” he cried. “Justice delayed is justice denied, but that isn't to say it isn't satisfying.”

“Turmoil stumbles into the medbay in the middle of the off-cycle as if he were half-drunk with the locks papering every inch of his frame.” Megatron chuckled. “He could barely move. I was not pleased at the time, nor was Soundwave, but in hindsight…”

“What I would have given to see Turmoil talk his way out of that one! He had it coming.” Drift's comm pinged more insistently, flashing obnoxiously on his HUD. None other than Rodimus. He held up a hand to Megatron as he checked the log.

> _::Bit of a situation, finish up your chat, and come ASAP::_  
>  _::Having a bit of a problem::_  
>  _::assistance required::_  
>  _::drift where u @ need HELP::_  
>  _::maydaymaydaySOS::_

Drift clicked his glossa and stood to leave. “It's Rodimus.”

Megatron waved his hand. “Go. Don't think twice.”

Drift readjusted his swords and paused a moment, trying to think of something to say before he left.

“Go, we'll speak again.” Megatron said, noticing his hesitation.

Drift laughed gently and paced towards the door. “You just want me to handle Rodimus before you have to.”

Megatron shrugged. “I prefer to think ahead.”

Drift sent Rodimus a reply and rushed to the other side of the ship. His friend was in the medbay (which worried him) and clearly wasn't responding immediately (which worried him more). At first he thought Rodimus might be injured, but he understood before the medbay doors even slid open to welcome him. A racket was coming from behind the door to Ratchet's office.

“—have a mind to open your cranium and check for parasites! You sent him _alone_ ,” Ratchet was ranting, “without any support, to go talk to _him_? To Megatron? Do you even _know_ what you were thinking?”

Rodimus huffed like he could blow Ratchet away with the sheer breadth of his reasoning. “Yeah, I do.”

“Care to enlighten your lowly medical officer then, _Captain_?” Ratchet's voice whined with restrained fury.

Drift opened the doors to Ratchet's office with a small sigh. Both of the arguing mech's heads snapped around to face him, Ratchet with the kind of death glare he normally reserved for runaway patients, and Rodimus with the apples of his cheeks positively shining in appreciation. 

“Drift!” chimed Rodimus, baby blue optics wide and bright.

“Welcome back.” said Ratchet, flatter and colder than a sheet of steel.

Rodimus extracted himself from where he was wedged between the furious doctor and the desk stacked high with datapads in the center of the room to come greet his friend. Ratchet, arms crossed, stayed put. 

“So! How'd it go?” Rodimus crooned. “You seem pretty… intact.”

“Yeah! Yeah,” Drift said, trying to curb his enthusiasm for Ratchet’s sake, “it went better than I expected, that's for sure.”

Rodimus called back to Ratchet, “See doc? Have a little faith!” and clapped a hand one of Drift's shoulders. Ratchet was highly unamused, from the looks of it.

“Good to hear it,” said Rodimus warmly to Drift. “You weren't happy earlier. Was it worth it?” Rodimus' expression was earnest, and behind his friend's optics he could see some flashes of the colour of comfort. He wanted an honest answer. Rodimus was getting better at spectral cues.

Drift smiled, relaxed. “I would say so.” Rodimus grinned appreciatively. 

Drift pointed in Ratchet's direction and Rodimus nodded understandingly. Exchanging a commed promise to talk more about it later, Rodimus left Drift alone with Ratchet in the intensely silent room. 

Drift approached cautiously. “Hey,” he attempted, in greeting.

“Hmph.” Ratchet wasn't delighted.

“…I know you're not pleased with me taking Rodimus' suggestion—” Drift began slowly.

“—That would be a nice way to put it.” Ratchet muttered.

“You were worried, weren't you?” Drift asked, sidling up to the desk to stand closer to Ratchet. Ratchet seemed surprised for a moment, optics darting to look at Drift and then furtively look away.

“Megatron was never going to hurt me. Even if he wanted to he couldn't.” Drift tried to ease.

“Physically.” Ratchet spat. “You're talking about physical harm. Which of course he wouldn't be able to.” The medic crossed his arms more tightly, as if he were holding himself back (‘physically’).

“Megatron has been eroding Rodimus' ability to hold to his own authority over the months he has been here, according to Ultra Magnus. We haven't just seen the worst of it.” Ratchet faced Drift, no longer frowning in anger but clenching his jaw in worry. “I can't always tend to those wounds.”

Drift walked over and softly placed his hands on Ratchet's crossed forearms. Ratchet paused, for a long moment, but then put his hands in Drift’s. Drift gripped them and spread his field out around Ratchet in comfort.

“I swear, he didn't hurt me.” Drift said. Ratchet looked from beneath his chevron, with a glum look of doubt.

“I was afraid he might, at first.” Drift admitted. Ratchet's field mingled vindication with worry. “He… didn't respond well at the start.” Ratchet squeezed at Drift's hands, a bit desperately. Drift squeezed back. “But his demeanour changed entirely as we spoke— as though he realised his mistake, Ratchet.”

Ratchet grumbled, field still fraught, “Forgive my skepticism.”

“Name a time I haven't.” Drift replied, easily, with a slight grunt as Ratchet closed the distance between them and pulled Drift into his arms.


End file.
